If on a Winters Night
by Fourhumors
Summary: The girl who rejected the King is a story well loved, however as these strangers who cross paths on a wintry night will learn, things aren't always what they seem.
1. A Chance Encounter

Hello~

I have reposted this chapter, it has no major changes, only its just better and with grammar now that Sylphien has gone through it.

This story is told in a frame narrative inspired by The Storyteller thus it is kind of a cross over.

Enjoy~

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Chapter 1

The rain is hard, footsteps of travellers are washed away rapidly. The cold bites, eyes are strained past the surrounding, rolling green and the Wanderer sees a thick tree, heavy with sheltering leaves by the road. The sun will set soon and the nearest town is too far away to suffer. The Wanderer hastily approaches the tree to find, sitting by the trunk, are two strangers. A young man playing absently with his fiddle, he shows surprise at the Wonderers alarming and unsettling appearance. The older, leathery skinned man smoking his pipe displays a curious eye.

"Do you intend to eat us?" chimes the young man, with a light voice that has not yet been weighed by the world.

"No" implores the Wanderer, stepping out of the rain. The voice is flat and dull and they struggle for a moment to catch its sincerity, it is the way the Wanderers limbs seem to tremble that makes it clear that it is a plea "Do not be frightened, I seek only to keep dry until the rain passes"

"Oh, not much frightens me," laughs the young man.

"There is plenty of room here," invites the older man with a gravelly voice, expressive and pleasant to the ear.

"Thank you, kind strangers."

The Wanderer sits, minding the space between them. People may act brave, but the Wanderer knows that they see terror and danger. Brushing away the wet and cold, sending thoughts to the horizon, the Wanderer at first does not hear the question which has been asked.

"What sends you down this road?" the older man asks again. His curious eyes turn again upon the Wanderer.

"I am a wanderer, any business I have will always be on the road."

"Not for the celebration?! Oh, I hear it's going to be like no other. I was sent for to play my bird song on my fiddle at the castle. There are sure to be beautiful girls there," exclaims the young man with an arresting excitement.

"Perhaps we should travel together?" suggests the older man. "I am a Storyteller, and I was sent for to entertain with my great, old tales at the castle."

"Splendid! What do you say, Wanderer?"

"Alas, I will not hear your bird song. I will not hear your stories. I have no place in celebrations."

"Well then, the rain is sure to burden our travel for awhile longer. Let us pass the time with a tale or two," declares the Storyteller.

"And I shall play my fiddle when your instrument needs rest."

"I will lend my ears. And here I have bread that is dry to keep our spirits up." The Wanderers pack has been kept dry, from it a loaf is produced and broken and a fondness is born between the strangers. The Wanderer is warmed, as fondness is not often returned. There is no hidden terror when their eyes meet.

"This rain is not so bad, we have turned misfortune into fortune," says the youth.

"Very wise, very wise, life has its bumps but that's the way it is. Not all of us have such perspective. There was once a girl, from very far away, who was blinded by her own spoiled ways and clouded by her own frustration. Fuelled by this she tells her younger brother a story from her eyes.

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young girl, whose stepmother always made her stay at home with the baby. And the baby was a spoiled child, and wanted everything to himself, and the young girl was practically a slave..._"_

"Oh, I do like this one," says the youth, getting comfortable.

The Wanderer stays quiet, with eyes shut.

* * *

The Storyteller lights his pipe again.

"That is how she became the champion of the Labyrinth!"

"Bravo!" claps the youth.

"Well spoken. Although I never understood how the Goblin King came to love her when they had never spoken before," the Wanderer says softly.

"Love can be a fire that needs little fuel," replies the Storyteller.

"But it burns out too quickly," quips the Wanderer.

"It's for the best, yet I do feel a touch sorry for the King," ponders the youth.

"Ah, but not all is as it seems. It is true Sarah had his heart but there is more to it than that, for what I told you was through the eyes of a young girl. She cannot see everything can she? While this tale is grand, _it is_ part of something bigger: An epic for all we know that has not ended. It is history, and history is not easily forgotten, but a well spun tale, regardless of whether it is true or not, will outlast history. What I will tell you now has not been recalled for an age."

The youth looks on in awe, and now it is the Wanderer's turn to cast a curious eye.

The roar of rain fills the silence.

"For now," the Storyteller continues, "If you'd be so kind, young musician, I need to rest my instrument."

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Jareth and Sarah in the next chapter. whoop!

I will write references at the end.


	2. What the Heart Wants

Hello~

This here is my second installment.

I am not particularly pleased about this chapter, part of me wanted to skip straight to what I consider to be the 'fun stuff', but since the Storyteller is telling Jareth's story it wouldn't make sense to disregard chronological order entirely.

This chapter has been reposted

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Chapter 2

The youth's bewitching bird song fits well with the rhythm of the rain, their hearts sing along as they listen.

"That song is like no other," the Wanderer remarks when it is finished. The cold doesn't seem so bad and rain does not seem so inconvenient, for without it this song would not have reached the Wanderer's ears.

"It is a song written for my beloved and she is like no other. Every night I play this song for her, and when I return I shall play it every night again. Are you rested Storyteller, or shall I play some more?"

"Rested and ready I am. Now where were we? We were speaking of hearts, love and the enamoured Goblin King. This tale is written differently in this land, if a scholar bothers to find it in history books, but no matter where you hear it, it begins with a king.

This King wars against his love for his family and his love of power. He compromises with legacy. He becomes invader and tyrant, as his lustful gaze turns to the neighbouring land. The Queen and the children find their love for the King overshadowed by the fear and disgust at the King's ravenous quest for absolute domination. They can do nothing but watch as the balance of their world tilts.

Like the King, they are torn between the two, so they are paralysed. They live watching until they can no longer watch anymore.

On the day his seventh child is born, a feat among the Fae kind, a whispered prophecy casts a shadow on what should be a happy occasion. It reaches the ears of the King and incubates deep within him.

_This child has the power to move the stars themselves. This child has the power to end the King's reign._

The child is named Jareth. When the King holds him for the first time he sees those peculiar eyes, a tell tale mark of great magic, it is the mark of somebody who can grant wishes. There are many who wish him dead. The King is overwhelmed by the dread blooming within him. The Queen witnesses this and, out of fear for her child's life, she teaches him well with her eye always watching over him.

All the while Jareth grows from babe to child. He dazzles with a voice that sways the heart. Day by day his magic grows strong and fearsome. The King he sees wickedness in the child, he sees touches of his own ugly self. The King cannot contain his anxiety, he loves his child, but his affinity for control is tenacious.

He sneaks into Jareth's room one night room to find that he is already gone. He searches all over the castle, but the boy is nowhere to be found. The Queen is gone as well. All through the night he searches with magic; he searches with spies until dawn breaks and the Queen returns silent. She doesn't have to say a word: the King knows his son has escaped.

His spies are not silent. Months later they return, speaking of a kingdom that never existed until today. A kingdom that one can sense is built from magic, and when they entered it was plain to see that the very walls had a spirit of their own, a labyrinth of the mind as much as it was of stone. It was not long before their own vices took hold of them and the master of this strange new place, the boy Jareth, vanished them from his territory.

The boy had told them:

'_This is my labyrinth; home of the lost, the lonely and the abandoned, to which I am King. Tell your King that his army may try to capture this land, however be warned! Once you enter this place you are at its mercy. For this is a place of judgement in which I am the judge and the executioner"_

The King fumes, he sends heroes and knights who return beaten, or who do not return at all. The Queen using all the bits of land gathered created a place that the King's sticky fingers cannot touch. It grows every day, in population and size; and soon it houses a city for the Goblins who have always been pesky nomads but are tamed by the dazzling yet wicked King.

Magic has rules stricter and more everlasting than any other laws. Jareth has wandered place to place, charming those with no allegiance so he may lead them. From each territory he collects a piece of land, moulding it together like a puzzle to form a being. This sublime spirit has become a Labyrinth, naming Jareth its founder and King. But he is a King in debt; for all that he took he is now to repay by taking those wished away, just as his father had tried to be rid of him. He is to play judge for those who choose to face their tribulation, as his father never did. It is a place to prove ones worth, for if the third son can become King while his father and brothers are still fit, then a peasant may take the challenge to become knighted.

Jareth is visited by his mother often. She has no need of permission from the great Goblin King, for she has an enchanted ball of red yarn, to which she whispers '_take me to my son,'_ before rolling it on the ground. The yarn bumps, rolls and weaves, leaving a trail that leads her to Jareth.

It isn't long before the King notices this, and in his mortality sends an assassin skilled with dark arts to follow.

_"Bring me the Goblin Kings heart," he_ says, "_so I may see it wither."_

So the assassin follows the Queen down the twisted paths, he hides in the folds of the castle, and using potent poisons, send the Goblin King into a great slumber. He snatches the yarn, he tears out the heart, and he is gone, leaving devastation. The clever Queen knows that a heart can be replaced, so she binds his life to the living Labyrinth, shackling him to its life force until the heart is properly returned. Jareth open his eyes and knows his wings have been burnt, this place is his domain, and now it is also his prison, for if he leaves for too long he will surely die.

In a fury, Jareth takes flight. He hates his father; he despises his responsibilities. Now that his heart is winding stone there is no hesitation when he sees the sleeping face of his father. He plucks out his purple heart, replacing it with his mother's pin cushion. He looks into the heart, seeing a battlefield, scarred, bloody and dwindling. _It is time to find the victor,_Jareth thinks to himself, taking the guise of the assassin and shaking his father rudely awake.

The King takes the heart greedily.

_"Are you sure you want to do that?"_

_"Yes."_

The King crushes his own heart, ending his own reign. His shadow no longer looms across the land.

The Queen resumes the crown and together, with her children, restores balance. They go on to build a prosperous Kingdom; they still rule the south west lands to this day."

"Do not fret young man, I will tell you what happened to the Goblin Kings heart. He found that assassin, he took back that heart and that yarn. Some say he turned that assassin into a beast and set his Goblins to torment him, others say he hired the assassin, impressed by his abilities.

He looked into his heart and saw loneliness and rejection. He would have to remain King of the Labyrinth, taking screaming babies, if his heart remained stone. There was power in this as well as suffering. Walls and traps don't feel pain as the penetrable flesh in his hand does. He doesn't want his heart. He sends it away, hides it, changes its form, and protects it with strong magic. It is soon forgotten as it is passed to and fro, never given a second glance. Never thought of as more than a trinket, as it simply gathers dust.

Eventually it lands in the hands of a young girl who, unlike too many before her, opens the covers and reads the pages within. As soon as her warm fingers open his heart, the Goblin King clutches his chest, such throbbing, pounding. Such thunder, he thinks he must be dying. The sensation seems familiar, he thinks, and he conjures a crystal, seeing our Sarah awakening his lonesome heart. He is enthralled with the girl, but his eyes watch her warily with flickers of fear. The girl is but a child, yet she holds his life, using it for her play world.

Sarah doesn't know what it is, only that it feels like more than a book. When she is between dreams and waking with it, clutched to her chest, she swears she can feel a faint flutter. In this heart she sees his malice, his loneliness, and reads that his heart belongs to her.

He wants the girl who sleeps with his heart next to hers."

"That doesn't sound like love at all!" the confused youth cries.

"Oh," croons the Storyteller, "not all love is true, not all love is honey. And not all love is returned. The closer Sarah gets to the centre of Labyrinth, more and more of his heart is returned. He is able to steal it back when she makes her wish, hiding it deep under unremarkable trash, only to find it again as if she is pulled to it by some fate. There is magic at play that he doesn't understand. By the end of her journey he has fallen in love, for his heart yearns for the warmth of hers. She has peered inside of him, she has fought her way to his very core, and she has won. He has his heart, but it still belongs to her. He still feels her there, twined with his soul.

Yes, the cruel Goblin King has a heart sick with love, he is sprouting softness, sweetness. Yet wicked is what he has been for an age, and that is what he is still. For it seems that even the wicked can fall prey to cupid's arrow."

"Does she love him?" pipes the youth.

"I cannot say, I'm just a Storyteller. I can say only that it's hard to feel nothing when you look into the very depths of a person. It doesn't matter, she does what is best and the King suffers for it."

The rain is light, not yet finished but well on its way. The golden sun is in its final moments along the horizon, the time has come to end the travellers interlude and continue on their journey. As the Storyteller takes a breath to continue, he is interrupted.

"The story is incomplete," remarks the practical Wanderer. "Come, the road is dangerous at night, so I will accompany you to the city. I should like to repay you both for passing the time in my company, I will hold any dangers at bay, for not many are brave enough to approach me."

"That I do not doubt. I will tell you the rest on the way if you would like, but if you do not mind, young musician, my instrument needs its rest."

* * *

done done done

geh I kinda hate it.

stay tuned for what I consider 'fun stuff.'

Thanks to Honoria Granger, I will certainly review my work more carefully and perhaps find myself somebody willing to edit.

Thank you Lylabeth 1, that's very encouraging and informative. I will try not to disappoint with my rookie attempt at imitating traditional story telling. And yes I am into Marvel and oh have I read 'Fallen Star.'

From The Storyteller: 'The Three Ravens,' 'The Heartless Giant' and 'Fearnot'

Others: A bit of Greek mythology such as Daedalus and Icarus, the Minotaur and every other self fulfilling prophecy Myth. Snow White because in some twisted way (probably the poisoned peach) Jareth reminds me of Snow White. A little Howl's moving Castle? Yes yes yes


	3. Do you Fear the Dark?

Hello~

I didn't think I'd update so soon, I've been in a writing mood recently and I've taken advantage of it.

This chapter was initially much longer however I've cut it in half, well not quite, the second half is far too long and I feel needs to be a chapter of its own.

Anyways, enjoy~

This chapter has been reposted

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Chapter 3

"You say you don't know if Sarah loves him, then how do you know he loves her?"

"How did _you_ know?"

"Well I... the story, I suppose."

"Everybody knows!" exclaims the Storyteller. The Wanderer at his right laughs, although the sound does not resemble a laugh. The raging rain has quieted into a drizzle and darkness has descended around them. The clever quiet Wanderer lights a torch, pointing it towards the grand city that remains alight with life throughout the night. They are sure to approach the outskirts late into the night, however there is no urgency, their pace is leisurely. The Wanderer walks just slightly ahead with the flame, as the youth ponders and prods.

"No matter where you travel to, it known across all the lands that the Goblin King loves the girl, even those who don't know why they know, or why is it that everybody knows. Tell me, young friend, where are you from?" The Storyteller continues, seemingly more animated by the atmosphere.

"A village, hardly known, I am the first to travel beyond the nearest market, you know."

"Is it known there that that the Goblin King loves the girl?"

"Yes, it is, how strange! There isn't much knowing in my village, nobody really bothers to stop by to give us any knowing. Would you be so kind?"

"Well, imagine a night just like this, your feet are just as weary as they are now, only there is no light to guide your way. No road to assure your destination, no company to keep you safe and no stars; as the trees, tall around you, are a thick cocoon for all the terrors of the wild. You have nothing, nothing to assure yourself that you will see the sunrise. The cold cuts deep, it hollows out your hope and, just as you are about to shed tears, you see a light from out of the corner of your eye. It is still there when you turn. It is a bright flame, moving to and fro in-between the trees, you realise it's moving away from you. It must be another traveller, you think; you think the owner of that flame must know the way.

You call after it but it doesn't stop. You chase after it. Your body is heavy; you are in pain and you're afraid you might not be fast enough. You push yourself, even though you're aflame from exhaustion. You shake from the burning cold. At times the light seems so close, then it is gone. You stop, turning this way and that until you see it again just as you saw it the first time, from the corner of your eye. Then the sun is up, the world is awake and you find yourself at the edge of a forest. This sight before you is familiar, but not comforting. You feel even more lost, that helplessness that made your eyes swell with sorrow displays itself as it falls freely down your cheeks. You have been led astray. You turn in vain hope, no, in desperation, only to find the border of trees gone. In its stead a malefic figure: so painfully beautiful and so agonizingly angelic in the morning light."

The Storyteller stops, seeing the youth's attentiveness. He sees that his eyes are ablaze with curiosity and huffs, a little dissatisfied at what he sees.

"You don't scare so easily," the storyteller remarks, making the youth laugh.

"Don't take it personally, I've never shivered or jumped before. Sorry."

"Interesting."

"Do not doubt yourself, Storyteller, I am all shivers here. For a moment I doubted my own torch," the Wanderer's voice is flat as always, yet the two companions trust that the truth has been spoken.

"Imagine! A big thing like you scared"

The youth has a smile that the Wanderer thinks is brighter than the flame lighting their way.

"Please, don't stop Storyteller, is this figure the Goblin King? Is that unfortunate soul Sarah?" says the bouncing youth.

"Well, the King in his hunger planned a plan and schemed a scheme. He reached into Sarah's world, unwinding it and pulling it taut. He yanked and dragged until she is tangled, screaming in rage, bound airless to him in a tight, twisting knot. You seem surprised, young friend. Do not forget that Jareth is not accustomed to the ways of the heart, he loves in the demanding selfish manner a child does, and do not forget that he is wicked. He is tenacious, just like his father.

"Why bother bringing me here?" she hisses, her eyes flashing with fury. "Why trap me here?"

"Because I want you," he hums, with a heavy gaze that matches his words. He removes his gloves. "And I shall have you," he promises.

Upon his ring finger she spies her mother's ring, the one she gave away all those years ago, and she feels as if a noose has been place around her neck.

"I cannot, I won't, can't you see-"

"Sarah," he demands her silence, "I am perfectly aware that you intend to refuse me, feel free to excite me with such attempts, after all, we have forever; but remember, I will not be denied. This ends one way only, _precious,_with you as my bride. I _can_ be cruel."

"I hate you."

"It matters not."

She shrinks away from his advancing embrace, he is quick to enclose her, it is only for a moment. It is enough for her to feel that lonely heart again and remember parts of what she saw inside. He leaves spitefully, wishing her sweet dreams.

Oh poor brave Sarah! Torn from her world, her freedom in the clutches of a powerful man with... ill-intentions, yet she holds despair at bay. She breathes in a deep breath and thinks on what she knows and what she thinks she might know. All through the night her mind is churning, weaving, digging, plotting and prying at the tangled mess she is in. Come morning she has not slept a wink, it matters not, because she is bright with determination. She faces her enemy, knowing exactly which strings to pull.

He takes her from the confines of the castle, to a vast garden she thinks must be taken from the dreams of children. It is the epitome of nature's beauty, and the romance of magic.

"Tell me," she nudges, "how do you intend to wed me when I am so unwilling?"

The King smiles a smile for things to come; silent, he extends his hand to offer her help down the narrow garden steps. She promptly ignores his hand.

"Nothing good then."

"A matter of perspective."

The rejected hand holds the crook of her elbow, she eyes the ring that was once hers, and he watches her. The gardens splendour is forgotten.

"That's my ring," she says lamely.

"It was once. Your ring is here now."

The band he produces is intricate, beautiful, and she despises it.

"Oh, how are you going to convince me to wear that?"

He smiles, oh-so-innocently.

"Nothing good then."

"It does not have to be this way."

She turns her head to hide the twitches of a premature smile, as she prepares to make the first tug at her knot."

"Shivers," murmurs the Wanderer.

* * *

haha, metaphors

More Sarah and Jareth to come. In case you are a touch dissatisfied at some of my briefness I will be touching on how Sarah is brought underground again, much later mind.

This Chapter takes from the 'Fearnot' episode of 'The Storyteller.'

The second person story is based off will-'o'-wisp tales.

The use of the word 'noose' is a sort of reference to many classical Greek texts that often use 'yoke' as a simile or metaphor, I mean not quite the same connotation but the feeling is similar. let me have this guys.

Thanks again to Honoria Granger, Jetredgirl, Kitten4 and Lylabeth 1

I'm working on improving and upon my own laziness.


	4. Why Settle for Less?

Hello~

Again, thank you for the support. I've been exhausted this week and now I finally have time to myself. whoot.

enjoy.

This chapter has edited by the awesome Sylphien and reposted.

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**Chapter 4 **

By a sparkling creek, under magnificent willow tree, our heroine makes a request that the King had not expected. He sits aloft, rolling and passing crystals in his hands absently, his thoughts turned inwards.

"Hoggle spoke of weddings in this world,grand but swift affairs, tell me, are they impatient? Do the people breathe down your neck?'

"Goblins do not keep secrets well, dwarves are terrible liars, and mothers cannot contain their happiness. Thus these _people_ you refer to are all a flutter with the mystery of the Goblin King's bride."

"It seems I have a reputation."

He spares her a glance and a smile, somewhere between mocking and fondness. She needed time, she needed distractions.

"Perhaps I would be more willing to..." she stops, pondering aloud; hesitant that she is digging her own grave. "To take your hand, if I had a dress to match my reputation."

Oh, she has his attention now. For a moment he is bewildered, brow raised, eyes alight and head tilted, he plays along.

"What of the gowns I have given you already?"

"Gowns for a doll!" she hisses, "for a toy to keep under lock and key, no life of its own. If you would have me live this life then I will take what I can from it. Would you have me dressed as a doll or dressed as your Queen?"

The King descends, and she is perturbed by his expression as he does. His voice is sharp, but his eyes speak a different story.

"I moved the stars for you,' he coos, "this is what changes your heart?"

"It won't change, it beats for freedom, for choice. I won't have it ripped from me; so I must settle for the illusion of choice." She advances, he watches her with his arms crossed, leaning back against the trunk.

"I want to _wear_ the stars that you claim you have moved for me. Made from the beauty of toiling hands, it must sparkle like a clear night sky. Then they will look upon me with fear, awe and envy; for they will know that their King would move the heavens for his Queen."

He grins, his fingers toying with the ends of her hair.

"You are both honey and the bee. You mean to stall me, Sarah."

"That may be," she says slowly. She calms and steels herself, lightly taking his hand in hers and holding it, her eyes fixed on his.

"Is this not more favourable? A promise, rather than what you have planned?"

He considers this, feeling the grooves of her palm. She is playing him as if she had practiced the instrument for years, he knows. He finds himself a touch delighted, a touch weary, and finds he is wistfully agreeing aloud.

The promise is simple: she will take his hand at the altar in exchange for the night sky to wear at the feast. When he leaves for his task she is at work, her nose in books, meeting in secret with old friends and new. All whispers and hurrying; but when the Goblin King returns the work is not yet done.

She is astounded at the creation he has brought.

"Beautiful! Beautiful!"

"Very fitting for my Queen."

"Indeed, but what of my title as champion? After all the day begins with the procession, there I am not your Queen but your champion."

"You cannot stall me forever," he warns.

"In your haste you overlook! I am first to appear as champion, the girl who cut through your impossible Labyrinth, a dress is hardly suitable. They will think your kingdom easy; give me armour, strong and pale like the moon, so that when they look upon me they will know that to oppose me is as useless as challenging the moon."

"And what will you promise me this time?" The game is tiring on him and he thinks on how to end it.

"After I take your hand, I will let you put that ring on my finger."

Sarah, seeing his irritation, makes him a silent promise; taking his hand once again and pressing her lips to his knuckle. He likes this promise better. So he is gone again, and she is busy again. At her bidding the goblins scatter about, coming in and out of her room. This time she is not alone, Jareth's mother comes and Sarah spies her from the willow tree, collecting the tail of a rolling, red ball of yarn. The Queen passes by without noticing, smiling at the thought of seeing her son. Sarah watches, whispering into a hole in the tree.

The king and his men return, with armour forged from the heart of the highest mountain, luminescent and harder than steel.

"Beautiful! Fearsome!"

She still needs time, mothers are distracting and observant.

"Ho, lend your ears," interrupts the Wanderer.

In their silence they hear the approach of slow moving hooves. The Wanderer passes the torch to the musician and sinks back into the darkness. The light of the flame reveals a grey spotted horse; its rider sits backwards, hunched and dressed in rags with a hood, decorated with a great bird skull. The horse stops, the rider's head is drooped, fixated on the candles flame that he holds in his hands. He remains this way as he speaks to them.

"Strangers, would you tell me where I am headed?"

"You are headed to the great Northern City, carved from white stone and paved with riches. Recently the young King has returned and restored peace," answers the Storyteller.

"Thank you stranger," says the rider with a smile. He resumes his journey. The youth wants to call out to the rider, but the Storyteller shakes his head.

"Why does he ride backwards?" he whispers.

"It's an old tradition for oath breakers, one must journey, taking faith in their horse. They sit backwards to reflect, they must keep a single flame alive until they are atoned. A rare sight, friend, it seems that this night is full of unlikely encounters."

The Wanderer slouches back into the light, taking the place as guide again and speaking a little louder than usual.

"Let me guess, next she asks for a dress for her title as bride to wear at the ceremony?"

"Indeed, brighter than the sun she wants it, gold and unforgettable. This time she kisses him on the lips, and the joy that swells in him feels like suffering.

"You mean to trick me."

"I do."

He decides he wants to play this game too, and there, in front of her eyes, he turns Hoggle, Ludo and Sir Didymus, into cowering stone statues.

"So this is the limit of your generosity?" she hollers, tittering on the edge of despair.

"On the morrow of my return we wed," he promises, leaving her to grieve her situation. With heavy tears she embraces the marble figures, they are so cold. Their hearts still beat though, and they whisper in her ear that all is not lost.

This time she barely leaves her room, the Queen will spy her occasionally with her hands cupped to the willow tree for up to an hour at a time. The Queen, although she loves her son, seeing his wickedness at play feels torn, so she does nothing.

Jareth returns, confident that he has won the game. The dress is unlike anything she has seen before, with all the radiance of the sun that inspires life, and from her eye a small sparkling tear falls.

"Yes, this is what I asked for."

The morning bells chime. All creatures great and small are animated with the days excitement. Tthe streets fill, all is prepared and the guests arrive in high spirits. Only Sarah's room is quiet and still.

"Gone! Sarah gone! She don't like our presents," the goblins cry to their King. Panic! Alarms! And oh the palpitations! Gone? Gone where?

"Well," he says, grabbing the nearest goblin and tossing it out the window, "find her!"

The guests and onlookers are mystified and thrilled; they join in the hunt, laughing, howling and scouring the Labyrinth that Jareth has so keenly opened for them. The sun sets and the bride has still not been found. The willow tree is gone, an earthy crater in its place. The statues are gone and the garments he had made are too. Upon the Goblin King's throne is a pin cushion, with a note punctured by a needle. It reads:

_I would not do something as ugly as to break a promise, however, I never promised to willingly go to the altar. I'll do all as promised if you can get me there. I have outrun you, Goblin King._

_Farewell,_

_Sarah._

He turns then to his mother.

"Please, Mother, please." He begs for the assistance of her enchanted yarn.

She complies, hating to see her son in pain. She retrieves her enchanted ball of yarn and, in front of eager onlookers, rolls it along the ground. The ball stops only a few feet from her. It no longer bumps and rolls, weaving a path. It lies still and ordinary.

"So, Sarah took the ball!" exclaims the youth.

"Yes, in fact, it was discovered much later on that the golden door knocker had witnessed something that day. He was unable to say so until somebody took pity on him and removed the ring from his mouth, and then straight away he spilled everything he had had to keep plugged away. He saw, following behind the yarns tail in an elegant dance, three faceless black mannequins, one wearing the moon, one wearing the sun and the last wearing the stars. The Labyrinth shifted, a great wall obscures the door knocker's sight, all but above the wall, where he saw the top of a grand willow tree, shuffling forward with loud creaks and groans.

Other than that nobody really knows what happened to cunning Sarah, she's still missing to this day, not even the keen eye of the crystal can see her. The tree has been spotted here and there, but no sightings of the bride. So that is why the inclination of the Goblin King's heart is such common knowledge.

If you must know it is mostly because goblins cannot keep secrets, dwarves' are terrible liars and mothers cannot help but talk about their children."

"Oh no, don't end it here, tell me what happened. You can't start and not finish properly," pleads the musician.

"Be assured, once the rest is discovered you will hear it from me, regardless of whether it is what you have expected, you will at least be satisfied because it has ended. You must forgive me, I have been eager to share this mystery."

The Wanderer stops and turns, they have reached the edge of the citys light. Music, warmth and laughter emanates from within.

"I will go no further," the Wanderer proclaims.

"Will you not join the celebrations?"

"Such things are not for me."

From a pack, the Wanderer fetches a small bundle and hands it to the youth. He takes it and unwraps it to find an unusually small, dried sunflower. When his fingers touch the stalk it comes to life, becoming full, the colour restored and vibrant, even in the dull light.

"This kind of sunflower is rare, it feeds off parted love. It is healthy as long as you and your sweetheart are healthy. If your heart yearns to see her and her heart is the same, the flowers head will point you in her direction. I have no need of it fr myself."

"Thank you friend!"

"And for you, Storyteller, I shall tell you what I have heard whispered on the road. On the island in which the dead rise and fall each day, they remember a proclamation involving a ring. Near the vast Amber City they speak of a great slumber awakened by troubled love, and how the lovers there were not ready to pay the price of devotion. Down southwest they laugh about well-meaning sisters and brothers who intervene, forcing misunderstandings and tragedy. Yet one thing remains the same, the bride disappears on the wedding day and the King chases her shadow. If you want to know what happened that day, find the roaming willow tree. For a kindly giant once told me, if you have a secret burning within you, go up into the mountains and find a tree well hidden. There you must carve a hole; whisper your secret within and clog it with mud so that there your secret will always remain. Except that this giant delighted in unclogging these holes for himself. He'd press his ear to the hole and listen to the secrets within. The secrets of the runaway bride are sure to be in that willow tree."

The Wanderer does not wait for the travellers to reply, but begins to move away.

"I doubt I shall see you two again, farewell!"

The youths tongue is haltered by awe, and the Storyteller kindly nods. The Wanderer is consumed by the night. The musician brushes away tears.

"Come," says the Storyteller, "there is a long day ahead of us tomorrow, an historical day that will be sung about for years to come, no doubt. Come now, don't cry friend, did you know that the marble statues of the bride's friends are in this city? Yes! I will show you tomorrow."

* * *

- This chapter is taken from the 'Sapsorrow,' 'The Three Ravens' and 'Hans my hedgehog' episodes of 'The Storyteller'

- Also reading other 'Peau D'âne' related stories as well as the 1970s film starring the magnificent Catherine Deneuve

- After reading tales about trees

- _In the mood for love_ and _2046 _is where the secrets in a tree idea is from.

- As for the man riding backwards thing, it's from a story I heard as a kid, I'm sorry, I searched but I couldn't find the particular story I heard it from. Dang. I've got to mention Gaeliceyes' Return to the Labyrinth, this is partially inspired by it after all.


	5. Fingers Perched at the Cradle

Hi~

Thank you for reading, following and reviewing.

Special thanks to Sylphien for your encouragement

Sapsorrow is also my favorite!

This chapter has less Sareth but plenty of important developments.

This chapter has edited by the awesome Sylphien and reposted. Thank you~

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"It's far too early, sir Storyteller. Not even the birds are awake yet," groans the youth, staggering down the street as he struggles against the pull of sleep and dreams.

"We must be early, sir Musician, or we will be blinded by festive crowds." The Storyteller is not so drawn to rest; his mind is too occupied with the busy little happenings here and there that piece together and connect with those big happenings. There is an alert brisk manner about him, as he strides towards the city centre.

"Wait," the youth whines, his hand extended. "You still haven't told me why they are here."

"Well, the story of the young girl who beat the Labyrinth is popular in these parts. A while back a young woman named Miharu took a wrong turn coming home one night. Poor girl! She was cold, distressed, lost, and most unfortunately she was not alone. A great tall, hungry shadow traced her footsteps. She did not notice at first, thought it was just the sounds of the woods, cliffs, and the ocean. Then she felt its presence tinging up her spine, breathing down her neck, but when she'd turn there was nothing to be seen. In a fright she sprinted. Behind her she heard heavy footsteps, rapid, deafening and invisible. The night sky broke, unable to hold the storm back, and there were flashes all around her, far and near. Miharu stumbled into a cave and, realising her mistake, she turned to meet her predator. Lightning illuminated the shadow that shrieked and cowered before her, and when she turned back to the cave she was shocked. There was the great, marble statue of a horned beast, howling to the heavens before her; one of the lost statues. There was a rumbling that was neither the hungry shadow nor the turbulent forces of the storm. The earth shook and the cave mouth collapsed, warding away the shadow; only opening again once the safe morning sun had risen. Miharu accepted no reward for the recovery of the statues, instead she pleaded that they be displayed for public eyes to see. And, well, you can't have monuments as traitors of your own kingdom! And nobody had seen the Goblin King in a long time, so they were gifted to the great Northern City..."

The musician listens, blinking the sleep from his eyes, he does not quite notice when the Storyteller has stopped speaking. They have reached the city square, a marvellous display of gold, sapphire and marble. After some quiet moments of awe, the youth begins to extend his sight for the famed statues. Instead, he catches the sight of a small gathering crowd around a marble platform, and his new-found friend striding towards them. The youth catches up in a lazy jog.

"What has happened here? Where are the Statues?" the Storyteller whispers to a friendly baker.

"Nobody knows! Except for him," she says, pointing to the dishevelled drunk, laying sprawled upon the empty platform.

"The statues are gone?!" exclaims the dumbfounded musician.

With gentle care they awaken the man, give him water. The baker, feeling charitable, gives him her first loaf of bread for the day. When the man finally talks his brow is drawn, pausing here and there to dig past the aches and pains, to the memories laying beneath.

"There was a man... no, a beggar, on a horse... he rode in the dead of night. He held a candle... and yes, he rode backwards. I was on my way home at such a sight. I had to stop, if anything to see if it was a hallucination from the drink. The beggar stopped... er... it was right here, he got off and... Well, I'm not too sure... the statues were no longer stone. They breathed. I went to tell them off for stealing, well; I went to tell them something. The drink must have gotten the better of me, for I do not remember anything else."

The King's guard arrives to escort the man away, patting him fondly on the back like an old friend. The disappointment of the missing statues is quickly forgotten as the city springs to life. A spectacular frenzy of colour, dance and music, as happy hearts flood the street, hearts full of love for their returned King. Nobody notices the sun crawling across the sky, until it is gone and their feet begin to pain.

There is a great fog that descends late into the night, thick, and more formidable than any city wall. All through the streets the Kings men knock, shout and yell:

"The fog remains this night and the next! Anybody who values their safety stays within the city bounds!"

The rumours spread and galvanize: _The lords and ladies that had gathered for the celebration commanded the mountain spirit to cloud the roads_, they say. _A spurned lover takes their revenge_, they say. _The King forgot to invite the mountain spirit, and in doing so invited mischief_, they say. They are all a buzz.

_N__o__body can travel safe in such fog tonight._

_It's cursed!_

_Somebody came to this city and now they do not want them to leave._

_A menacing shadow descended upon a merry feast._

_No! Wrong!_

_Yes! True!_

_Not a shadow. A beauty._

_Nonsense!_

They whisper about a strange thing as well; a mysterious raw-boned beast seen all across the land, dawdling down the roads. They say a merchant saw it; a tall shadowy creature that stepped onto the road, giving the merchant a fright. The creature paid him no mind, slouching past him and disappearing into the forest.

In a tavern closest to the wall of fog business is good, and the night is merry. There are even a few dancing to the song of a fiddle. The stern waitress, Una, serves ale and speaks of the strange occurrence with the merchant to a table of stranded travellers. They shiver and laugh. The music stops, replaced by a voice that walks on air.

"I know this fellow! He is a friend of mine," declares our young Musician.

"You know this merchant?" inquires Una.

"Never met him no, but that creature you spoke of. I met it during the harsh rain."

"I heard it's the shadow that chased Miharu. I heard it searches for lone travellers to eat," cries a drunkard.

"It eats bread for all I know," the Musician shrugs, bringing his fiddle to his chin. He thinks of the hunched Wanderer in the misty rain and plays. Astonished, the people look on. Usually they would laugh away such a ridiculous claim, but no laughter comes, and they are arrested by the music, and the twinge of sadness that strikes the chest of the listener. It is the Youth's first song that speaks of melancholy.

As if summoned by the strings of the fiddle, the Wanderer enters the tavern in a burst of cold wind, squeezing through the door into the warmth. Cowering falls upon the humble tavern, and a brandishing of weapons at the appearance of such a nightmare.

"Do not be afraid," begins the Wanderer in that flat voice.

But they are afraid. All except one, the youth leaps up, throwing his arms around the creature.

"Friend!" he cries, "I did not expect to see you here, what a delightful surprise."

"Oh, it is you Musician. It is nice to see you well. As for your surprise, you are right to be, I would be on my way by now and normally I do not seek places such as this to rest, but the fog on this night has nastiness to it."

Although the creature seems horrible, Una is more afraid of the tension in the room, slaughter is bad for business. She approaches and introduces herself.

"And what is your name?" she demands.

"Golly, I don't know your name friend!" Exclaims the Musician.

"We did not speak of names, therefore we never learnt them. Call me by profession please."

"I am Freddy," says the young musician. He and Wanderer shake hands.

"_Fine,_ Mr. Flâneur," Una bows slightly. The air becomes easy, and all that is left are the worried eyes. Una is apprehensive at first, but in the end the Wanderer pays double to sleep on the floor of the youth's room, and agrees not to leave the room for the whole night. She tells the onlookers the creature has gone back into the mist and leads the two friends out the back way to find a more hidden entrance.

"If you would be so kind, my companion should be returning later tonight, could you tell him which room we are staying in?"

"Another friend?" she laughs, turning her eye to the Wanderer. "How shall I recognize him?"

"He goes by 'Storyteller.'"

"Ha! That old drama queen, yes I know him well. Be wary of his tales, they are fun because they obscure truth, after all, tweaking history is the job of a successful Storyteller. This tavern is my family's business; my brother had to run errands out of town so I have had to cover for him. My usual profession is that of a scholar. And while the grey-faced men confuse themselves over the scholarly matter of the opposite sex, I have dedicated my studies to seeing as many truths from as many angles as I can. Tell me, which tale has he enticed you with?"

"The Goblin King's runaway bride," answers the Wanderer, with a small hidden smile.

They enter through the back way and she leads them to the nearest room, pausing at the entrance before speaking again.

"The King is not as wicked as is told", she says. "Still nasty, of course, but there was a proclamation which bound him by law to his actions, though he fought it tooth and nail. I have letters and documents that prove these actions after all. I guess it _is _just a story though... I shall return with your belongings, Freddy."

Una's quick exit leaves them pondering in silence. The Wanderer becomes occupied with building the fire, and the musician, Freddy, watches, reflecting on the swift suspicions of the tavern people. Feeling sad for his gentle friend, the musician buys him a goose pie, and they share it by the fireplace.

"How was your performance during the great celebration? Did you perform for the returned King himself?"

"Oh yes, I did, handsome fellow that he was. So many people that I thought I'd never lay my eyes on. I even saw the Goblin King, although it was brief and peculiar. I had a grand time, but it was a peculiar affair, I don't think I can quite make sense of it. Our Storyteller was there, he is sure to come in later and will explain the whole thing and, after all, I would not rob him of his profession."

To pass the time they compare the places they have been. The Wanderer describes places that the youth has dreamed of going to, like the floating islands shaped like eggs that the locals say will hatch if the sun gets too hot. The villagers fight everyday over whether the egg is from a turtle or a bird.

"And for you what is the most favourable place you have been to?" asks the Wanderer, suddenly embarrassed from talking at length.

"Out of all the sights and wonders it is my home, because that is where my sweetheart lives. What of you friend?"

"I suppose it is the same. Home."

Freddy retrieves the sunflower, smiling softly as it bends its bright head east. He is suddenly disturbed as he remembers how it was shrivelled before it was gifted to him.

"Where is your home, sir Wanderer?"

They stare at one another for a moment, the Wanderer's dark eyes widen, eyes that are always so flat, like the Wanderer's voice, contain a flammable spark. Heads snap away and those flashing eyes fixate on the fire, wheels turning inside heads, groaning so loudly that the Wanderer thinks of pulling its cloak up over its thick, fur torso.

"I think I shall wait for the fog to pass, and then I will tell you. In the meantime, would you like to hear a secret? The nosy giant in the mountains told me one that he unplugged from a tree. It went like this: _When I was a child I wanted nothing more than to fly, I wanted to reach the mountain tops and sing of victory. When I grew up I became so afraid of falling that it was as if I was standing on a faulty bridge, trying to cross a pitch black chasm. I was so careful, so practical. Everybody was envious of me for I hardly had to suffer. Now that I am old I wish more than anything that I had fallen, at least once, that I had leapt into the unknown. Every day I wake up knowing I have hardly lived, because to fly you must risk falling._Sad, no? Don't let life clip your wings, young musician._"_

The door opens, the Storyteller has finally arrived, his face alight. He cannot not wait to tell his new friends what has just occurred.

* * *

This chapter is inspired by 'The Three Ravens' episode of 'The Storyteller'

The Wendigo and many more previously mentioned.

lazy I know, but I've got to leave the house and I just needed to post this.

Also all of repetition of 'slouches' and 'hunching' is inspired, referencing etc From _The Second Coming _by W.B. Yeats


	6. The House Rules

Hello~

Thank you for following, reading and reviewing.

Sorry it has taken me awhile to update, I hit a wall with his story and needed time to work a few things out. I probably will be slower with the updates, I'm starting camp NaNoWriMo and there is a fair few life things that are getting in the way. I've also been naughty and started writing another Fic which I will certainty be posting after I finish this fic.

You'll notice more Australian spelling in this chapter, this is because i'm Australian. It's more American in previous chapters because I was using a different computer that used it blah blah blah... basically that little red line really pisses me off. I apologise for his lack of continuity. Let me know if this is a huge bother and I'll change it.

This chapter has been edited by the infinitely wise and masterful Sylphien.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Goblins are not known for their bravery. They are playful, violent, silly and a great many things that are not brave. Sog, goblin soldier for the Goblin King, is scared, yet he remains at his post. After all, he has his orders: nobody passes the city gate. The cold of the dark night cuts to the bone, yet it is the sight of the churning fog, however, that causes him to shiver.

"Halt!" he commands, "No thing, big or small, goes in the white cloudy."

The cat twitches its ears, staring blankly at Sog who is standing proudly at the smaller city gate. It ignores his demands, skirting past Sog with a blinding speed. The clumsy Goblin chases with loud protests, his efforts clumsy and weighted by the thick bronze armour clattering about. He leaps, landing harshly on the ground, a silky tail slips through his knobbly fingers as the cat darts out of reach.

The cat hisses at the heavy fog, arching its body with a low growl. For a moment, it stays on edge, before darting back to the city gate with a scattered ferocity. Sog stares, transfixed by the festering white wall, it feels as if it is coming closer. It feels as if it wants to consume him, and he is paralysed by the nauseating, yet mesmerising, flow. Trembling, he wills himself to shuffle backwards. From somewhere deep within there is a groan, a resounding snap, which awakens Sog's instincts. The goblin flees, thinking surely death has come for him tonight. He reaches the gate safely. _Not tonight._ _Dids I think that up? _He ponders. His relief is stunted, there is a raging howl echoing from deep within the wall. Sog spends the rest of the night shivering in a box, wishing he were behind the walls of the Labyrinth.

* * *

The teeth are just as sharp, a mat of fur and feathers just as repugnant and those talons, just as intimidating. It was the eyes that had changed, for when the Storyteller looked into them; he found that they were no longer hollow. He noticed, too, that its frame no longer seemed to towering; perhaps it was because the Wanderer sat crouched with a cloak covering its body?

"Well hello, I did not expect to see you again so soon"

"The fog is peculiar this night."

The Storyteller's face lights up, and with haste he drags the armchair from the far wall to the fireplace, plopping himself down, he looks into those changed eyes.

"It is, isn't it?" he finally says, barely containing his smile.

"Well, tell us what has happened," prompts Freddy, placing the sunflower back into his breast pocket.

"Oh, what a night, roasted pork and dancing. The whole hall was alight with laughter. The King was overjoyed to see his family and friends again, and what a handsome fellow this King Ersa is! Dark hair, amber eyes and a sunny face. He was still the same, loveable prince, though much changed. He is a man now, who wears his golden crown as a responsibility, but did you see?"

"Yes, I did, he seemed distracted or impatient. I couldn't really tell," Freddy answers.

"Yes, he did. If you looked carefully you could see a slight frown every now and then, his eyes would wander to nowhere in particular. The nobles who came from across the realm to celebrate such a joyous return didn't seem to mind, what is one distracted King to the dawn of a peaceful age? Oh, and what a crowd there was, royalty and legends, all dressed handsomely. There was one guest, however, that nobody expected to see. It was just as our young friend was about to play his birdsong when the great hall doors burst open. There he was! What an entrance! With a swirl of dust that shimmered like the sunset on the clam sea, clad in black with hints of blue. The Goblin King had appeared. We were all agape as he sauntered towards where King Ersa sat at the head table, a sly smile was the only acknowledgement of his bewildered audience.

_It's him! The Goblin King',_ they whispered, _Where has he been? When was he last seen?_

"It is good to see you again, King Ersa," he said with a bow.

"Oh, dear Wanderer, how to explain just a voice? Sharp and divine all at once, was it not Freddy?"

"His singing voice was something else as well."

"Oh yes. Yes! We'll get to that soon."

King Ersa returns the sentiment. "I was told not to expect you, though nobody could give me good reason for your absence."

"I have come only to pay my respects, rather taxing business calls for my attention."

"Will you not stay? We have missed you dearly. Come, at least for the entertainment. Why, we were just about to hear the bird song that can enchant even the cold water nymphs."

"If the returned King insists."

"Very good. Come man, don't be shy," says King Ersa, turning his attention to our young Freddy.

"He played wonderfully! You really did, Freddy." Gushes the Storyteller. "I saw the Queen of the snowy hill top elves shed a tear, I saw the blood thirsty Wotan smile, ever so slightly, and King Ersa seemed transported. There was a thunderous applause.

Many recalled how the Goblin King could compose lyrics masterfully, on the spot, and with heavy demand he agreed to sing along with our young Musician's song. He sang of the first throws of love: two strangers, who are unfamiliar with love but are set alight upon first sight of one another. Hearts aflutter and cheeks coloured, they pass each other and hope tomorrow they'll see one another again. His voice was unique, quite deep, wouldn't you say? It is a voice that resonates in your chest, beating along with your heart. The Goblin King took his bow and moved himself to the side, leaning against the wall, his eyes closed and brow drawn. He stayed there for much of the evening. Our young Freddy left soon after his performance."

"I missed my sweetheart."

There is a knock on the door from Una, returning to drop off Freddy's travel pack. She eyes the Storyteller a touch sourly.

"I see you have found it," she states, dropping the pack on the floor.

"No trouble at all."

"You should have waited," she points her finger before turning to Freddy, her tone suddenly friendly. "Sorry Freddy, I was able to bring your pie earlier, but the pack had to wait. I'm sure Storyteller has failed to mention the hunters who are about, looking for suspicious characters-"

"Spoilers!" cries the Storyteller, trying to hush Una.

"I thought so, some things are more important than a drawn out story," the sternness in her voice silences him in a huff, "you haven't told him, have you?"

"He's safe Una, I was just getting to it."

Freddy and the Wanderer exchange a worried glance before Freddy asks for an explanation. Una gives them a reassuring smile; she speaks to them in a relaxed, yet straightforward manner.

"Mr. Flâneur, currently the city is being scoured with little success, so they are looking for anything odd. The guests thought you suspicious and mentioned you to these hunters. Lucky for you the only people who know you are here are all in this room. I believe it is in your interest to stay here until the mist has cleared."

"You have my gratitude," says the Wanderer, relaxing, once again it is touched by such rare kindness.

"That's very kind of you," Freddy adds, relieved from his momentary worry. Sending the Storyteller a well-schooled look.

"You are certainly fearsome to behold, and quite mysterious too, however, it does not seem fair to hand you over for these reasons alone. Think nothing of it, Mr. Flâneur. Oh, come now, I didn't spoil your story really."

"No, I suppose not," sighs the Storyteller.

"Well, my shift is ended, the guests are all off to bed, the days festivities spoiled and I have no doubt you know why. You are always in the middle of these things. I would like to know myself; information is my true trade, after all. Freddy told me the Goblin King arrived at the royal feast?" Una joins Freddy and the Wanderer confidently on the floor by the fire, looking expectantly at the annoyed Storyteller. After a moments silence, she gestures for him to continue.

"Well, that's where we were up to. Freddy left and it was my turn to offer my services. It is thrilling to have a captive audience, and King Ersa listened carefully to all the stories he had missed whilst under that nasty curse. He was reserved, but, like you said before, distracted my some matter. He listened, yes, he did not laugh and cry as the others did, he seemed to be all thoughts, all thinking. Then, when the story of the girl who beat the Labyrinth was requested, I had to hesitate. This story is well known and loved from all corners of the world and I have told it to all sorts. Never to the Goblin King himself. All eyes turn to the Goblin King, sharper and colder than the winters night he was.

"Proceed. It is no concern of mine."

So I told the story with the usual delight, well received. However, gazes flicked to the Goblin king with every spout of laughter, and gasps, nervous that they should gauge his reaction. Very few dared to glance his way as I told the climax: the Goblin King's final ploy. I felt my own curiosity win out; I looked up as I spoke the final words. A mask of stone he was, just as his heart once was. His reaction was not the most shocking thing. King Ersa's interest was unwavering and, by the end, he has tears in his eyes. Such a rare sight from the sunny King, who never shows his suffering, and what suffering he has endured!

"Well said," he breathed.

The stone mask cracked, surprise leaked through and melted as the Goblin King considered the weeping King. There was a burst of music, swirling of vibrant silk and a dazzle of jewels as dancing commenced. Entertainment was forgotten, in order to cheer the king. _Dry your eyes, friend, _some said to him,_ and_ _join the dance._

"In a moment," he said, over and over. The Goblin King, who was no longer obligated to attend, staid. His eyes were always on King Ersa, until he peeled himself from the wall and began to make his way to the King's table.

Oh, the timing friends! There is another late arrival. The music slows to a halt, the crowd parts, all attention given as the doors creaks open. She is here. A dark haired beauty with a swagger to her step, oh, what piercing eyes she has! She is wearing what seems to be the very night sky."

Freddy's eyes bulge and Una brings a hand up to her mouth as she gasps. The Wanderer's gaze doesn't stray from the fire, for the most part it is seemingly unmoved, aside from a small smile.

"If she is here, then the beggar riding backwards that we saw yesterday could be her!" cries Freddy, leaping up in a half crouch.

"Why would you think that?" asks the Wanderer.

"Oh yes, I think so too, but we'll discuss that later when you all know all the details."

The King's room is a hushed buzz. _Who is it? _They whisper,_ could it be? _Many had seen her before, yet they were still unsure.

This… woman makes her way toward the table, always looking forward, to the paired Kings . All those whispered questions, and all those nagging suspicions, are quelled with one word.

"Sarah."

It is not the Goblin King who speaks her name. He remains frozen to the spot with those peculiar eyes locked in a heavy stare. It is King Ersa, who rises from his place and speaks her name.

"How does he know it?" pipes Freddy.

"Maybe he heard the tale of the Goblin King's runaway bride?" reasons Una.

"Perhaps they had met previously," joins the Wanderer.

"The very questions we all asked ourselves!"

Sarah smiles and bows to the returned King. Then, she shivers, her head snaps to the side, as if she could feel him, the Goblin Kings gaze clashing with hers. Oh, how we held our breath as they both looked at each other with awed stupor, their breathing heavier as they seemed to speak without words.

"This is unexpected," she says, mostly to herself.

The Goblin King breaks their spell by taking a step towards her. His abrupt movement causes her to falter; taking a step back before she schools her features. She turns dismissively towards the returned King.

"Well, your majesty?" she asks with a sudden impatience.

The Goblin King peels his eyes away, frowning at King Ersa, sharing the rooms confused sentiment. Oh, but how to explain what happens next? Young friend, do you mind? Play something while I get my thoughts together."

"Oh, I do want to know what happens next, I will give you your time friend. What would you like to hear?" Freddy asks nobody in particular, as he begins plucking at his fiddle, he looks at the Wanderer. It is Una who makes the suggestion.

"That song that you played earlier, it was beautiful and melancholy. I quite liked it"

He plays with his eyes closed, a touch embarrassed to open them.

* * *

Haha, My Storyteller is a asshole.

Jareth has been pretty quiet, not for long I think.

This Chapter is based off episodes 'Fearnot,' 'Sapsorrow,' from 'The Storyteller'

I don't know how to write lyrics, you must be satisfied with my summery.

I wanted this chapter to be longer, well include more, i have a feeling his fic will be longer than I had initially intended it to be. I've got my work cut out for me.

I still don't have a beta, let me know if you are interested in helping me out. yay?

artseblis

Yes indeedy! I've challenged myself and I'm being careful to keep track. All will be revealed

Sylphien

It is my favourite as well! I always wanted it. I hope this chapter isn't a let down I haven't incorporated anything new really. I'm working on what I've already put in. I have new elements planned for a bit later.

Thank you for reviewing 3


	7. When the Music is Over

Hola!

Sorry! I don't know why it went all gibberish like.

How embarrassing!

Special super awesome thank you to the amazing Sylphien who fixed everything and is continuing to fix all the other chapters.

***Applauds loudly***

* * *

Chapter 7

The city sleeps, the people warm from the busy day. Freddy's song has ended but the companions find themselves too excited to succumb to the pull of sleep. As he puts his fiddle away, bashfully accepting compliments for his sombre song, he sees something so briefly he thinks he may not have seen it at all. Something he thinks might be more rare and precious than jewels: he sees a tear upon the Wanderer's cheek.

The Storyteller resumes his tale, oblivious to the moment before him.

"I warn you, young friends, there are pieces missing from this story, but nothing remains secret for long. It is my duty as a Storyteller to fill these gaps, once I do you will be the first to know," warns the Storyteller.

"Just tell us already," whines Freddy.

The King cleared his throat.

"My esteemed guests, here before you is Lady Sarah, Champion of The Labyrinth, and my rescuer! The sorcerer who cursed me into slavery, all those years ago, willed that I should appear as a beast. When my true form was allowed my appeal to strangers for aid would be forgotten the moment I left their sight. It was Lady Sarah who severed the ties to my captor, allowing me to return. For when she came across the sorcerer's cabin, she did not forget, she possessed magic preventing those who would tamper with her memory. Her business with the sorcerer was forgotten as she exited the cabin, gifting to me my captors head."

"I do not forget so easily," said the Champion, no doubt speaking to both Kings. The irked Goblin King raised a brow.

"Yes. I was adamant to repay my debt. I swore an oath to reward her once I learnt her name. It was a wager of sorts, if I could guess I would have a dance. When I asked for a clue: 'Listen well to the Storytellers, I'm rather famous here,' was all she said. It is good to put a name to my rescuer. Come, dance with me damsel, and we shall settle my debt." The King moved towards her and she took his hand. In the centre they began the dance before the music played, and after a turn others joined the waltz. They shared odd, solemn looks, mixed with small smiles as they spoke in hushed whispers.

When I went to observe the Goblin King I found he was no longer where I had last spied him, nor anywhere in plain sight. I think she, too, noticed. Her eyes would flicker sharply about the room, as if trying to spot a shadow in the thickets of a dark night, then those eyes would return to the sunny King.

So seamlessly, in the blink of an eye, the dance partners had changed. King Ersa returns to his table, his court advisors whispering in his hear, he nods and nods and whispers back.

Ah, I suppose it's not right to say the dance partners had changed, the dance between the Champion and the Goblin King never ended. There they were, his hand clasped in hers and his other rested on her waist. Her hand hesitantly placed on his shoulder. The other dancers watched, bending their sight towards them with each turn, how could they not? Oh what would I give to hear the words passed between them in those precious few moments, her cautious eyes softening for a moment, and only a moment; what had made her scowl with venom? One has to wonder if his words matched the tenderness in which he looked at her, or if his words matched his actions as he pulled her, breathless against him, in a turn. Her eyes bulged and she pulled from him suddenly, slipping through his fingers when he reached for her. The dancers stopped and stared, and she caught them. Wildly she turned, piercing them with her fury.

"I am not here for your amusement," she hissed causing some of the more faint of heart to recoil. The music stopped. She spied yours truly, the quiet observer to this peculiar moment, and fixing a sneer, she said: "you've had quiet enough of that."

"Sarah," the Goblin King attempted to hold her attention, she ignored him continuing her intimidation, taking slow steps her chin rose as she stared them down.

"I'm not here to play nice," she continued, when the Goblin King called her name again she faced him sharply, "nor am I a criminal!" The room parted again, leaving a wall of bodies in front of the halls exit. Sarah and her adversary in the centre stage. "Yet I am often treated like one," laughing bitterly at the incidental barricade, she stalked towards the Goblin King, spitting her words.

"Hounded, chased, and my life and freedom torn from me with bloodied shackles." She pushed past the stony Goblin King, her gaze fixed on King Erza. It didn't falter when the Goblin King clasped her elbow.

"Sarah," he said, with strength and warning, "let's take this conversation somewhere private."

"My patience is expended, as is my tolerance for such company," she addressed King Ersa, who stared nervously.

"You are being too rash, _precious,_ there are things you do not know yet." There was a touch of anger in his voice. The champion pulled out of his grasp and, standing her ground, she paced again, eyeing him before turning towards her audience. She has guts this girl, yes, but different from the poised confidence in which she first entered the great hall. In this moment she was tightly wound, an air of danger about her that made her appear to be a vengeful creature from one of the pits of hell. She is strong, her voice commanding.

"So dramatic," he growled, earning himself a look of arrows and daggers.

"You should have warned them, oh great, returned King. The child champion is grown and much changed, but perhaps it was wise not to," she gestures lightly to the Goblin King. He stepped forward, she stepped aside, and they moved slowly in a circle. He carried himself like a coiled spring, his movements sharp and measured. She continued speaking to King Ersa, eyes locked on the Goblin King.

"I have been punished for my transgression, lashed and tortured time and time again, when will it slacken? No, I have long since given up on forgiveness now, as my good deeds are wasted, for my punishment is indiscriminate. I will not be burdened by the mistakes of a child any longer. Now I only seek to take what is rightfully mine. You had asked for time, King Ersa, but I find myself weary and anxious to leave. Will you keep your word, your majesty?" She spared a glance for King Ersa, who rightfully looked anxious at that moment. Oh, he risks breaking an oath, and he risks getting on the wrong side of a very powerful kingdom. The King's advisor leaned forward to whisper one last thing into his ear, only to be dismissed by the King, who stands, his voice somewhat resigned.

"I cannot break my oath, I grant you the pathway between the under and above world to use as you please. The door is hidden deep in the mountain pass."

"Deep, but not well, your majesty," she quipped, flashing her victory in a smile. The Goblin King's stance was rigid, in the throws of something akin to panic.

"This is unwise," he warned.

"As is breaking an oath," returned King Ersa.

"What a wise King you are!' she cried in bitter mirth, "observe and learn, oh fearsome Goblin King, here before you is a truly honourable man, a man matured by suffering."

"I have suffered you, little girl."

"How terribly fortunate for you that I will soon be gone."

"Do not think you will leave here so easily, precious."

"If there is one thing I _have _excelled at in my lifetime, it is _outrunning you."_

"Oh, you can't honestly say that you have ever truly been truly free of me," he faltered as soon as the words left his lips, pinching the bridge of his nose as he sighed. "There are more important things to discuss, come, let us talk in private."

"Ha! I think not. There is nothing keeping me here any longer. I take my leave of this world now, my story here has come to an end." With an abrupt bow, she made for the exit, the guests parting for her and that dress fluttering behind her.

"Stop her!" the Goblin King shouted, commanding the guards at the door.

"Let her go," countered King Ersa, "I can hardly treat my hero as a criminal." The guards fell back, and she smiled a smile: sad, bright and beautiful.

A blinding flash and smoke. A cheap parlour trick used for distraction, shocked the room while she bolted. Cursing, the Goblin King transported himself into the chase. Out she went, down the steps, and presumably into the night; for the Goblin King returned soon afterwards, alone. He marched in, that star spun dress clutched tightly in his hands, dragging behind him.

"King Ersa," he roars, "do not open the doors for her."

"This is my domain, Goblin King. You cannot command me against my oath."

"She cannot leave, not yet. I would ask your majesty to detain her…"

"I cannot imprison my saviour."

"Then prepare yourself, I will set this kingdom alight with my wrath, boy." The Goblin King conjured a crystal, and outside the howl of a storm began.

"Then we must compromise," King Ersa suggested quickly. "Rübezahl, the mountain dweller whose magic holds great control over the winter air, has promised me a gift. I cannot place a warrant on her head, and I cannot break my oath, however, I can ask the great Rübezahl to surround this city in mist. For two days hence nobody can enter or exit, present company excluded, of course."

The crystal disappeared, and the howl quietened.

"We have a deal." And with that, the Goblin departed in a swirl of stardust.

The Storyteller leans back into the chair, watching the gobsmacked expression upon the three sitting before him.

"But what was the Goblin King going to say to her?" prods Freddy, after a stunned moment.

"He never did say, and depending on whether or not he catches her in the next couple of days, we may never know."

"What else happened?" demands Una.

"Well, not much after that. The guests left mystified, and no longer in the mood to celebrate."

"Except for you," Freddy points out.

"Yes, why are you so goddamn happy?" Agrees Una.

"Being in the middle of a story is always exciting! Oh, did I mention I was granted a private audience with King Ersa on the morrow?"

"You did not," Una says, a touch harshly from her jealously.

"Oh, do tell me what he says," pleads Freddy.

"Of course!"

The Wanderer draws closer to the fire. "Why do you think the beggar is the champion?" The Wanderer's flat tone is laced with curiosity.

"Yes, who is this beggar?" asks Una.

"On the road here, we crossed paths with a hooded man riding a horse backwards, holding a candle. Only it must not have been a man at all, but Sarah in disguise; for this morning we were given a description matching that of the same person freeing Ludo, Hoggle and Sir Didymus from their stony slumber. At the feast she did say that there was nothing keeping her here, perhaps it was her friends fate that had prevented her from returning home all this time?"

"From what you told us she seemed so hateful, so different from the girl that charmed the creatures of the Labyrinth, but it seems she still cares deeply for her friends. I hope she wins, I hope she finds her way home." Freddy pats his breast pocket, where his sunflower rests.

"It's best not to involve yourself too much, the story is curious' but that is all it is. We do not know these characters personally," says the Storyteller, lighting his pipe. Freddy frowns, he cannot help but feel that the Storyteller is wrong.

"It is time for bed, no doubt the scholars will have much to say on this tomorrow," says Una, taking her leave.

With sincerity, they wish each other a good night. Freddy and the Storyteller take the beds, while the Wanderer insists that the floor is more comfortable. The Wanderer listens carefully, waiting for the companions to succumb to the rise and fall of sleep.

Sog shivers violently in his box, fingers buried deep into his ears, waiting for the great groaning and cracking to pass.

It does.

It travels down the great streets, all the while creaking, breaking windows and turning up stone. A gnarled root crashes through the baker's shop, yet they sleep on undisturbed. Its great branches sway as it travels to the city square. The great willow tree plants itself on the platform, where the statues were once displayed, guards surround it but dare not approach. They look at it with a shiver of fear. Hanging in plain sight and swinging in the breeze is a severed hand, coated in blood. There, the tree rests for the night.

* * *

Jareth and Sarah got issues man

Thank you all for reading, reviewing and following.

Lylabeth 1 I had written you a long response to your comment, I'm really quite annoyed the chapter messed up like that.

I'm glad you got that book back : ) It sounded quite special.

I haven't really dedicated time into showing what my version of the 'underground' is, I can make an effort to included this more if you think it is necessary.

The whole 'take her away' part of stories is always my favourite, I will touch on it again.


	8. In the Belly

Hello~

The astounding Sylphien has edited this chapter, thank you very much!

I've just realized I've neglected to reference the previous chapter. Boo. I'll do it at then end of this one.

Thank you for reading, following and reviewing.

* * *

Chapter 8

The rosy fingers of dawn fall upon the northern city, it is resentfully sober as it awakens with lingering pain, taking slow heavy steps into the day. Routine has been made awkward with broken streets, a caging mist and a defensive, conscious tree, which has made a home in the city square. One of the King's guard steps too close in the early hours, the great willow tree shivers and branches lash out on the unsuspecting victim, leaving a wide gash upon his chest. After that the center is left empty, the guards preventing entrance.

When the sun hits midday a barn owl soars around the city center, he descends towards the willow tree only to rear backwards, narrowly avoiding an aggressive branch. The owl takes his true form as the Goblin King in the city square. He approaches again with cautious, steady steps.

"I have missed you, My Lady Willow," he croons sweetly with a polite bow. The tree shivers and groans. Smiling, he takes another step. The great tree thrashes one of its great roots, breaking the paved stone in warning.

"Do not defy me," another step. She pummels her roots loudly against the ground again. Jareth summons a crystal and, as he sends it into the air above him, it ignites into a ball of flames for a searing moment.

"You are either here to distract me or to carry Sarah through the mist, I have been generous, Lady Willow. You would already be in flames if it was not for my generosity, but know this: If I do not have Sarah by tomorrow morning, I'll be using you as fire wood this winter."

Suspicious looks are cast and shared throughout the city streets, as rumors of a fugitive or a beast spread like wild fire. In a tavern near the city edge the rumored sleeps peacefully into the day, next to the dying embers of the fireplace. The Storyteller has left at a respectable hour, rearing to begin his investigations and meet with the returned King Erza. Freddy finds himself awake in the early afternoon, feeling unsettled. He has been affected by a dream that he can't quite remember, he can only recall the image and figure of a woman, and the muffled sound of somebody crying and whispered secrets. Stiff and groggy, he drags himself out of the warmth of the covers.

"Are you still dreaming, friend?" He asks the mound of fur on the floor.

"No," the Wanderer breathes, turning towards him. The answering voice has much more animation than Freddy is used to, and it leaves him somewhat stunned at how soft, yet bitter, it had sounded previously.

"I have just woken from a powerful dream, it has left me starting the day feeling a little ill, like I've forgotten something important." Freddy fumbles, dressing quickly to chase the cold away.

"They say winter is the season for dreaming, that dreams are more vivid to keep the mind from despairing in the cold. My friend in the mountain once told me a story of a young man on a winter's night. A spirit had come to him and whispered a secret in his sleep, he awoke to see the spirit slip out of his bed chamber and into the night. Do you know what happened next, young friend? The man couldn't remember what that spirit had said; he thought about it every day, and when he didn't think about it he'd suddenly remember the secret for the flash of a moment, only to keep on forgetting and thinking. Eventually, he could think of nothing else, and he found himself completely aimless. He made a journey to the mountains soon after to share his own secret, that he had become afraid that the spirit would visit him again."

"What happened to him?"

"I don't know, he never returned from the mountain."

"Oh, you mean to frighten me!"

"Nothing of the sort, a dream is just a dream and the man was a fool to treat it as anything more."

"I suppose you are right," Freddy smiles, amused at the Wanderer's peculiar means of comforting. "It is strange, I've only ever dreamed of places I will go, and when I'm there I only dream of home and my sweetheart."

"I am much the same friend."

The hours trickle by, and the pair spend their time in comfortable laziness, entertaining themselves with a riddle or a peculiar observation.

Una enters with hot stew, a heavy book and a somewhat apologetic smile.

"Yesterday we were all smiles and laughter, and now there is fear in the air. The city is tense inside this cloudy cage that has a beast within, and I'm not speaking of you, dear Mr. Flâneur. A rather vicious willow tree found its way in the city centre last night."

"From where?" asks the Wanderer standing abruptly.

"From the mist they say."

"How does a tree move?" Freddy asks, laughing.

"A normal tree does not," Una shrugs, and drops the thick book on the bed. "I thought you might need something to pass the time, and this is related to last nights discussion. I have marked the relevant pages, and now, thanks to this cursed mist, I am back to work." With that Una makes an abrupt exit.

"I like her," says the Wanderer.

At times it had seemed to Freddy that the Wanderer had very few friends, in this particular moment as Freddy regards the Wanderer he feels that perhaps this is not entirely true, the creature reveals so little and yet he feels he has made a close friend.

"How did you become friends with the giant who listens to secrets?" asks Freddy suddenly.

"He gave me hospitality for a time, we were friends then."

"But not now?"

"No."

"What happened?"

"I refused to tell him my secrets." The Wanderer flashes a toothy grin.

Freddy opens the book to a marked page, inspecting it closely. After turning a few pages in silence, he turns to the Wanderer.

"How is your reading?"

"Is there something that you don't understand?" The Wanderer sits next to Freddy, who moves the book between them, so they can both view it.

"I understand none of this; I only ever learnt a few words. Here! What does it say under this?" Freddy points to an illustration, painted with pale colours and a dark border. In its centre, under large white arches, is an angelic man lying in slumber. In his limp hand a rosy, bitten peach rests. In the background an aged Queen looms, leading a progression of ladies towards the resting beauty. The Wanderer is silent for a moment before turning back to the previous page.

"It starts here:

_The Queen beseeched her son out of concern for his happiness to wed, however, King Jareth had no intention to follow through with his mother's request. Instead he placated her with a proclamation: that whoever should complete the tasks he set, he would marry. The task itself was impossible, and it became clear to the Queen that King Jareth had no intention to marry any of the ladies who came to court. After all, who could guess what the Goblin King, patron of dreams, dreamt of? What kind of gift was more precious than gold and jewels? _

_The Queen knows the answer, but she is forbidden to speak it aloud. Set to overcome this new challenge, the Queen gives up on the nobility and turns her attention to the Labyrinth's Champion, Sarah Williams, to complete the impossible task. She knows that Sarah would not willingly partake in something that rewarded in the marriage she so despised, so the Queen proceeds with trickery. _

_She begins first at the annual banquet of peaches, where she secretly feeds her son poisoned fruit, sending him into a deep slumber. The Kingdom despairs, for only the Queen knows the sleep is temporary and that the King will awake when his tasks are complete. In the meantime, she sits in the place of King Jareth, and thus has access to the doors between worlds. The Queen visits the Champion, coercing her with pleas and tears to return and rescue her son; eventually Sarah takes pity and follows the Queen to the world below. _

_The Queen leads Sarah to her sleeping son, all the while crying false tears._

"_I don't know how to save your son, I'm sorry," the Champion says before the sleeping King._

"_Please, humour an old lady, they say a kiss breaks a cursed slumber," pleads the Queen. She begs and claws Sarah's refusal, until the Champion agrees. Sarah leans over the King, and with hesitation, kisses him. The champion turns away, she sees that the Queen has dried her eyes and wears a satisfied smile. King Jareth awakens and is forced to follow the law and hold true to his proclamation._

_For what's more precious than a kiss from your sweetheart? In the throes of love and longing is there anything else you would dream of?_

Who writes this garbage?" The Wanderer closes the book and moves to the window, peering out to check the light of day.

"What else does it say?" Freddy protests.

"I'm afraid if we read too much more our Storyteller friend will be forced to talk about something else."

"True."

At the mention of sweethearts, Freddy feels the urge to look at his sunflower; but he finds that what had once been fresh and full of life now seems duller and slightly wilted. The young man turns it towards the Wanderer in silent question.

"Oh, that is not good," says the Wanderer with wide eyes.

"What does it mean?"

"That flower is connected with whatever it is that brings light into your life, causing it to bloom. It wilts now because that connection is starting to fade, I believe this means your sweetheart is simply unwell, do not fear."

"And if it shrivels?" Freddy asks, thinking of how the flower first appeared in the Wanderer's hand. The Wanderer suddenly becomes quite interested in the belongings by the fire, delaying response. "Then she is no more," comes the final, bleak reply. "Would leave now to see her if it were not for this mist?"

"I would." Freddy buries his face in his hands, rubbing worried tears from his eyes.

"Would you risk leaving before the mist is called away?" tests the Wanderer.

"That's impossible."

"It's not."

Freddy jumps at this; wide eyed, he crouches by the Wanderer, and the sunflower still in his hand.

"It is not without its share of danger," continues the Wanderer. However the warning is lost on Freddy as a petal falls free and flutters to the floor, danger is nothing when his sweetheart lays sick without him. The Wanderer hushes him when he eagerly pushes for their method of escape.

"You'll have to trust me, friend, first I must thank Una for her hospitality. I will stay and write her a letter while you gather your things and make your way to the City Centre. That tree came through the mist; if we can convince her to she may carry us through to the open road. DO NOT approach without me. Instead count the guards, stay unseen and wait for me. We will make our move before the sun sets." The Wanderer is all business, already retrieving the parchment and ink and smiling at Freddy who nods keenly.

"But," Freddy ponders, "how will you get there? I mean, those hunters may be after you."

"I excel in travelling unseen."

The young man has lived his life too honestly; his heart hammers harder in his chest the closer he gets to the city square. He begins to realize the gravity of what they are about to do, beyond trying to convince a violent willow tree to carry them safely, it has occurred to him that they are probably about to commit a crime against either King Erza or the Goblin King.

He walks surreptitiously around the square, counting the guards at each entrance. There are eight guards patrolling so far. The streets are quiet and empty. When he comes across the pavement, damaged by the willow, he stops and questions his decision again. He leans against a wall, taking a small break and watching his own breath in the cold air.

"Ho, young friend, what are you doing here?" Freddy contains his cringe at being spotted and turns towards the Storyteller, who strides towards him with a happy grin.

"I… er… heard the rumors."

"Oh, indeed," says the Storyteller, taking note of his pack with a slight frown, he decides to ignore it, for the moment.

"Would you like to see it? I was given permission by the King."

"Yes, I would," Freddy answers carefully, "did you really get permission?"

"Oh yes, Storytellers know more about these things than palace guards. Come, this way," the Storyteller guides his young friend towards the city centre again. Side by side, their steps are leisurely.

"How was your meeting?" Freddy asks, to fill the silence.

"I was hoping you'd ask. The King wanted to tell me about the time he spent cursed and captured by the sorcerer. What is interesting about this tale is that the sorcerer's specialty was in breaking spells and curses. No doubt she could cast them, but she made her trade in breaking him.

When I asked the King confirmed it, Sarah didn't just happen upon the cabin, she had sought it out, looking for a cure of sorts. She told him so when they met him outside of the cabin. At this point the King had almost given up on his freedom, and barely bothered to implore her for help. However, seeing his chains, filthy clothes, and his listless expression, _she_ approached _him_.

"And what ails you stranger?"

"Even if I told you, you would not remember," he replied tugging angrily at his chains, thinking this was just another lost cause.

"So you have given up? Would you spend the rest of your life in chains?"

"I would not."

"Then you must keep trying, hope is your strongest weapon, lose that and you are truly a prisoner."

The King looked at her then, unable to conjure a reply. He cried silently instead, her talk of hope had bloomed in his chest and cut him deeply all at once; for he was sure that once she turned her head, she would forget him entirely.

"This is an issue of memory?" her question is met with a nod.

"As soon as your turn your head you will forget me."

"Is that so? I happen to have an aversion to forgetting, see here," she pulled her dark hair behind her ears, revealing finely crafted metal earrings. "I had my memory tampered with once, and it almost cost my something dear, these protect my mind from magic. I went through great lengths to make sure it would never happen again, it cost me dearly, too."

She asked for his name and he gave it, with a coy smile she stood, eyes shut tightly and arms spread wide as she turned on the spot. She opened them, that same smile still on her lips as she bowed to him.

"King Erza," she said, mimicking the formal courtly manner. The King laughed through his tears, the pull of a smile on his lips which he thought had been forgotten long ago. The hope inside of him which no longer felt bitter, but light and full of sweetness.

"That suits you more, I think, your subjects must miss your smile; but I am no hero. I have come here for business, not to make enemies with a powerful sorcerer, if I free you it will cost you, and I warn you that the price may be steep." She knelt, looking him in the eye.

"My Kingdom is not poor, my Lady, I would give you all my riches if you asked," offered the King.

"I have no need for _riches. _I have given you hope when you had lost it, and I offer you freedom from your chains. I want you to repay me in kind, for my hope dwindles, no matter how hard I try to fan the flames of it. Swear to me that you will do this, swear to me that you will help me remove the yolk that suffocates me, swear this to me, because when the time comes for you to repay your debt, you may not want to."

"I swear."

With that Sarah entered the cabin, the King watching from the window, by all appearances it was business as usual within. Sarah slid a small item wrapped in a cloth across the table, a kind of flower the King is not familiar with. In return, Sarah is given a small blue bottle. His heart sinks, he thinks she had forgotten, the magic is strong enough to break even her protections. The interaction over, Sarah remains seated still, pointed towards the door, she says something that infuriates the sorcerer, who then charges out of the door, threatening to kill the King. As the Sorcerer bellowed from the doorway, Sarah stood, she reaches over, tucking the flower back into her bag. In a swift motion she strode towards the Sorcerer, unsheathing her sleek blade, and in one swing removed the Sorcerer's head from its shoulder. In death, the spell is broken, and the King is free."

"She really did kill, huh," Freddy adds, realizing the story is over

The pair pass past the guards smoothly, who warn them not to get too close to the willow. Neither of them expected the tree would appear so monstrous, with its towering presence and the ghoulish red hand, hanging from its branches. Nor did they expected it to be so beautiful. Freddy feels stupid for thinking he can ride this, he decides that when the Wanderer comes to meet him he will pull out of their plan. He will wait for the mist to pass, and much it tears at him to be away from his sweetheart while she is ill, but it is better than never living to see her again. How could the Wanderer possibly persuade a tree?

"Hey," Freddy says, in the midst of an afterthought. "Do sunflowers grow in these parts?"

"They don't," replies the Storyteller.

Dusk arrives and the pair enjoy the orange haze of the sun sinking below the horizon and resting for the night. Although the square is closed off for most citizens, the lamps are still lit like clockwork, and a shadow within the shadows approaches.

"I did not expect to see you here," the Wanderer addresses the Storyteller

"Nor did I. How did you pass the guards?" The Storyteller asks, exaggerating his own surprise.

"Rested for the night," the Wanderer smirks, turning to Freddy, "ready to go?"

"No, I think not, I have returned to my senses, friend. It is best that we wait for the mist to pass." Freddy mumbles an apology, not willing to look his friend in the eye.

"Oh, I should think so!" cries the Storyteller. Something knocks against his shoe, causing him to yelp. The trio look down, spying a crystal ball rolling between them. They watch as the crystal trails past them and towards the nearest building, and then into a tin cup.

"It's the beggar, it's her," the Storyteller says quietly to himself, before walking confidently towards the beggar they met on the road, who sits still and huddled close to the ground. Freddy follows, not hearing the Wanderer's warning as he stresses after them still.

"Well, well," the beggar croaks as they approach him, "what do we have here?"

"N-nothing," squeaks Freddy.

"Nothing?" The beggars voice becomes deeper and smoother, he springs upwards, proving to be alarmingly tall. He tears at his hood and cloak, tossing it aside. "Nothing? Tra-la-la?" says the Goblin King, standing magnificently before them, with his arms placed strongly on his hips.

"My, my," mumbles the Storyteller, before bowing deeply. Freddy, a tad flustered, follows suit. The Wanderer does not.

"Entertainers have no business in a closed square," he sharply turns his attention towards the rigid Wanderer, "and what are you calling yourself?"

"And why should a beggar want to know?" the Wanderer counters harshly.

"This is no beggar! This is the Goblin King!" chides the Storyteller.

"At this moment he is a beggar, is he not?"

"Forgive him, please, your majesty. He is not accustomed to the world of Kings and Queens. As for our presence, I was given permission by the returned King to enter this square, I have taken advantage of his kindness and brought a friend for company." the Storyteller further pleads his eyes.

"Leave and all will forgiven." Jareth dismisses them with a tight smile.

"Yes, of course, but before we do, may I try your patience for the sake of my profession, your majesty?" grovels the Storyteller.

"What is it?" Jareth answers, sharply.

"If you could be so kind, please inform us as to why you traveled to the city in such a fashion."

"Ah, that. My penance for breaking my oath was one of reflection. Leave. Now," he demands. Freddy and the Storyteller jolt into action, walking briskly away. The Wanderer makes to join them as well.

"Ah! Ah! Not you," they stop in their tracks, and Jareth clarifies his command by pointing at the Wanderer. "You and I need to have a little chat."

The Wanderer growls.

Before any more can be said and done there is a cry of rage from across the square.

"YOU!" screams a dark haired woman, missing her left hand and dressed in thick leather armor. With her good hand she draws her sword and charges towards the Wanderer. Jareth summons a crystal, transforming it into a blade of his own.

"Miharu," the Wanderer curses, sprinting sideways, towards the Lady Willow. The tree does not shiver, nor does it attack the Wanderer, who makes it to the base of the tree. Miharu curses, ceasing her pursuit. She grinds her teeth and wipes away angry tears as her eyes flicker from the Wanderer to the dangling hand.

"Stay back," warns the Goblin King, pushing Freddy and the Storyteller behind him.

In one seamless motion, the Wanderer's fur tears away, and in an explosion of dust it is replaced with gleaming armor, paler than the moon. The old and now lifeless skin rests on her shoulder as a cloak.

Sarah brandishes her blade.

* * *

I've been itching to do that for so long!

Only a few more chapters till the end, oh my!

The 'Sapsorrow,' and 'Fearnot' episodes of Jim Henson's The Storyteller inspired this chapterand it is safe to say it inspired the previous one.

In the previous chapter Sarah had a touch of Cinderella to her, in this chapter she resembles a Prince more and Jarethis reminiscent of Snow White.

King Erza's confinement comes from Neil Gaiman _Stardust _and Homer's _Odyssey._

The bloody hand hanging in the tree that appears in this chapter and in the previous, this is something I came across when looking at Japanese Yokai and folktales.

The idea of the peach banquet comes from Chinese mythology, specifically from _Journey to the West. _ In this mythology peaches symbolise immortality.


End file.
